


How Sirius Came To Say 'I Love You'

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-09
Updated: 2005-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:52:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius is generally better with tickling and socks than saying what he feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Sirius Came To Say 'I Love You'

Sirius stumbles to his bed and falls face first into his pillows, giving vent to a sigh from the depths of his soul. The sound bounces off the walls of the empty dormitory, and makes him lonely in all new places – just behind his ears and beneath his toenails and between the fragile bones of his left (and favorite) wrist. It's barely dawn and everything's gray.

It's January and he's almost eighteen and they'll be leaving this place for good pretty soon. It's months away (if you're the technical sort) but in the grand scheme of things it's practically tomorrow. Leaving means newness and adjustments and real life and despite knowing he shouldn't trust anything he thinks when he hasn't slept in thirty-six hours, Sirius wants to live at Hogwarts forever. And ever and ever, and . . . oh he's a ghastly old sod.

Sirius thinks of Remus, who's probably at the infirmary by now, tucked between clean sheets and smothered with blankets. He tries not to imagine the way Remus looks when he's sleeping because that circles back to being lonely, and it's disturbing to consider how much he misses someone he sees all the time.

He's never been very good at explaining to anyone how he feels about Remus – he's never been good at explaining it to Remus himself. The feeling never comes to him in words, but in echoes of former conversations and sweeps of color and the urge to do half-mad things with brand new socks. He'll open his mouth to say something simple about _liking_ and instead he'll be tickling Remus until the latter begs for mercy, or hugging him fiercely in the bathroom with his nose pressed against his neck.

And of course there's the kissing. He hopes the kissing makes it very clear that he likes Remus better than anything, but things get fuzzy every time they do it and he's not sure if that mucks things up.

Luckily for him Remus seems fluent in Sirius-speak, and always knows when the tickles say "I missed you," and the hugs say "I'm mad about you, do you have the faintest idea?" And that only makes the whole thing worse (or maybe it's better) because Sirius might be doomed to a lifetime of incoherency because Remus is so _patient_. Patience, he thinks, is a terrible curse.

Remus seems to like the kissing, though, so that's something, he thinks.

With a sigh he sits up and pulls off his sweater, peels off his socks and lets them drop to the floor. His shirt and trousers and t-shirt follow. It's cold between his sheets and his teeth chatter madly, and if he had an ounce of sense he'd reach over to where his wand is sitting and cast one of the hundred warming charms he knows. But he's exhausted and it's all so much effort, so he curls up small and waits for the blankets to do their job. He concludes they're very poor blankets when sleep doesn't come, and he sighs and sighs and sighs and sighs.

After tossing and turning and thinking about everything – Quidditch and lard and dragons and hemp – he throws back his covers and pads to Remus' trunk. There's a whole other world there, alarm clocks and pens and sometimes a cake, but this time he's looking for pajama bottoms, the ones that are worn and frayed at the hem. He puts them on when he finds them and feels a tiny bit better. He trails a finger over Remus' textbooks, and feels honor bound to smack himself in the forehead for being such a _nance_. But it doesn't stop him laughing at the photograph he finds of last summer, or stealing a new quill and several chocolate frogs. He lifts Remus' scarf to his face and inhales the scent of winter and slowly begins to smile.

~*~

It's two hours later when Remus comes back. He's stiff and sore, and has a bandage wound tight around his belly, but he hates the infirmary and wants his own bed. There's a vial of awful green potion in his hand that he's determined not to drink (unless a pack of wild crups actually _makes_ him – he knows his own limits) and he's freezing, standing in thin pajama bottoms in the early-morning chill. Yet despite the drafts that whistle round his ankles and directly up his t-shirt, he can't seem to move. He's wholly transfixed by the spectacle across the room.

Sirius is snoring, right in the middle of Remus' bed, with one foot dangling over the edge of the mattress and his hair in his eyes. He's wearing Remus' clothes – pajamas, a shirt, two sweaters and a scarf – and he's gripping the latter with both of his hands.

Remus pads across the room and stares, perplexed. Sirius is drooling and the noises he's making would scare small children, but for some reason this makes Remus want to kiss him hard. He doesn't know what earned him a Sirius in his bed, but bets there's some shadow lurking in the other boy's dreams. He sighs and watches, trying to fathom the substance of loss that wrapped Sirius in sweaters and tumbled him in blankets, but the throbbing in his head makes him give up all speculation in favor of poking Sirius in the ribs and hoping he'll move.

Sirius groans and doesn't wake up much but mumbles something like, "s'lots of space." There isn't, but Remus just bites his lip firmly as he slips under the sheets and winces despite his best efforts to do anything but. That wakes Sirius, who sits up, blinking wildly and looking utterly confused.

"I'm fine." Remus whispers preventatively, easing himself back on the pillows.

Sirius blinks some more. "Y'notin 'firmary," he says, as if Remus might doubt the fact.

Remus closes his eyes and tries to order the sharp, pinching pain in his abdomen to quit. "Shhh now. Sleep." There's pause and he's sure Sirius' face is a picture. There's a pause, then a whumpf, and Sirius is on his side, nose pressed against Remus' arm.

"You shhh. _You_ sleep," says Sirius, sounding petulant.

"I'm trying."

There's a huff of derision, and an "mmm," as if that's a very cutting response.

It's really quite uncomfortable, lying carefully in a bed that's only big enough for them both when they're a tangle of limbs. The infirmary beds are wider and less rumpled and they're soft and they smell good. That ought to make them preferable, but they lack the better parts of gangly young men with January eyes and whiffling snores, even if those boys are taking up far more than their share of the mattress. Remus fumbles until his hand closes over Sirius', and holds on tight against the pain he still feels. The swap is comfort for comfort, and he'd rather be anchored by touch right now than sleep in the the widest bed in the world.

He murmurs softly as Sirius' broom-callused thumb sweeps over the back of his hand. He's trying to ignore the issue of the clothes and to fall asleep and let his body heal. But . . .

"Padfoot?" He can't help it, he's so horribly fascinated and curious that if he doesn't say something he'll likely explode. He suspects that would hurt, maybe worse than his cuts.

"Mmm?"

"You're wearing my clothes."

Sirius sighs heavily as if someone's found out his deepest, darkest secret. "Missed you, Moony. Missed y'somethin' ter'ble."

Remus half smiles, feeling bashful. He's used to Sirius telling him he loves him in unorthodox ways, and supposes this is no more strange than tickling and hugs and kisses and socks. "The clothes helped with that?"

Sirius nuzzles closer. "Smell of you." He yawns. "InkandsoapandspicyMoony."

Remus struggles for a second to find words, which is usually Sirius' problem. "You big soft bugger," he manages at last.

Sirius sighs, too close to sleep to care that he's being mocked. "Love you," he whispers, and is asleep in the very next moment, too soon to hear Remus gasp, too quickly to see him smile.


End file.
